


The Protégée

by nigellecter



Series: The Protégée || N&M [1]
Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Léon; The Professional AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8034649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigellecter/pseuds/nigellecter
Summary: Léon; The Professional AU featuring Nigel x Mischa. RP thread between nigellecter and little-lady-lecter.





	1. Chapter 1

His day always began and ended with the wiener dog plush; about three-quarters the length of his arm, with double the thickness of his biceps. Just the right size for him to tuck it beneath his head and slumber away on the sofa, facing the direction of the door with loaded gun beneath the floppy ear. Since the accident, he was prone to panic attacks and fitful sleeps that would barely last a couple or few hours tops. When the sliver of the orange would hit his tired hazel,  _ bloodshot _ with constant weariness and fracturing of his innate professionalism, such nature of its brevity and his passion within his  _ transgression _ constantly kept him on the edge. He could be easily wiped out from the face of the earth without the aggressor ever leaving a trace. And New York was the peerless place for that; within the blurred edge where  _ sea of unknown faces  _ exist _ ,  _ he constantly dealt with a  _ succinct _ goodbyes before moving on with any emotional baggage weighing him down. He had enough of those strong tidal waves, surging through with rippling motion of colossal  _ animosity _ . 

A hubbub of thousands of crowds passing through the gridded map where most populous city came to life - through his viewfinder of the long rifle, he would watch the threaded ruckus of the white noise die down instantaneously as if someone had pressed a mute button. At least within his head, he would merely hear the whooshing bullet split through the muggy air to embed through the man’s viscera. Then, the _ fleeting silence _ would leave in its wake and become shockingly stark as tremulous fear instills with continual tremors, more so  _ aggravated _ by the entire population.  _ Yes, he held their lives within his virtuoso fingers; _ and he would be always accompanied by strange chill, that initial impact felt through the recoiling trigger as resounding fire agglomerated into a lump of fire, churning his core as heatwave flares through the expanse of his body. Then, everything would be over and as instant the kill was, it would pacify him as quickly as the kill itself. Only his crackling hazel, brimming with both  _ suppurating _ and passionate spark would enliven as hot blood seem to soak the entire view. 

The weathered room spills with  _ flamboyant _ golds and oranges and with his typical bedhead, he’s grooming the lush pelt of the dachshund and watches the grain run beneath his fingers. The barren, utilitarian view reflects nothing but an endless expanse of sky, progressing from elemental depictions of the sky to containing more  _ sophisticated _ layers of complicated colors as the night unfolds. Tidying up his makeshift bed and folding the sheets, he begins his usual work, of meticulously cleaning his revolvers and all the firearm in his arsenal. He already had five grand upfront cashed in, Darko had most of his money, while hd skipped hotels in tracking of his next  _ oblivious _ victim. He’d kill him and his henchmen the next day when daybreak sweeps down onto the measly occupance. Now the time for his usual workout - being the most sought-out hitman required dexterity, as well as a prowess of the most formidable predator. Agile and stealthy, which required strength of both mind and body. At least his body had been a prime example of that. Two hundred situps every morning and night. He’d be drenched with sweat and his muscles would sing, seep with healthy coppery glow as the starlight would etch through the glimmering expanse of his flesh. 

Attuned to his body as his controlled breathing never exceeds _ ninety beats per minute, _ his breathy exhale warms through his toned legs as he watches the deepening obsidian slant beneath the table, where his wiener dog stares with innocent gaze. Then, an  _ abrupt _ , frantic knocking at the door completely breaks his concentration and he’s already scrambling to stand with the weapon poised in the air, his barefoot making no sound as he cocks the hammer spur. “Who is it?”  _ Slightly _ weary, but firmness present behind his low, guttural voice. A trail of sweat feels more like a gust of wind upon the leaves, a strange chill traversing through each of his vertebrae. 

___

_ They could hear her heartbeat.  _

That’s all she could think. It was  _ cold _ in the hallway, and the metal flooring made her feet sting with each shaking step. Hell, she wasn’t even wearing shoes.  There was no way they couldn’t hear her heart slamming against her chest as blood rushed through her ears, every muscle in her body taught with horror and paralyzing fear. The men standing outside her apartment were looking for  _ Mischa Lecter, _ with no reference to what she looked like or who she even was; she only knew that she had to keep walking.

_ They must have been able to hear her heartbeat. _

The man at the end of the hall had been kind to her on one or two occasions. Picked up her bag when she had dropped it, offered her a quarter for the bus when she fell short. Always gruff and abrupt, he never seemed to want to stay for conversation or anything more than to do what he felt was his duty, and then leave. But his door was the only door she could see. She had to get out of here, and she couldn’t risk leaving the apartment where more men were stationed, questioning every person who passed through. 

_ They could hear… _

Eventually, she would get caught. Someone would rat her out, or she would break down and lose her composure.

_ …her heartbeat… _

Trembling like a small child, Mischa took a shaky breath and rapped on his door, up to four times, fighting the urge to glance behind her shoulder for anyone who could have been watching. 

“ _ Please let me in,” _ she whispered hoarsely. “ _ Sir…please let me in…”  _ She waited, as there was no immediate response even though she knew he was  home. She couldn’t risk saying her name. Out of desperation, she pressed her hand flat on the door and bowed her head, on the verge of tears as she heard more voices yelling about finding “Mischa Lecter”, oblivious to her presence just twenty feet away.

“ _ Please…” _ she croaked. She knocked again, praying to a God she so scarcely believed in that he would open the door and let her inside.

___

He could literally feel the  _ desperation _ seep through the washed out walls on the brink of crumbling down. The cheap hotel room offered zero soundproof when it came to protecting his privacy. The ears of his dachshund plush flapped intermittently whenever walls shrieked as it fissured with the signs of attenuation and discernible violence and a long series of intemperance having gripped Mischa’s petite frame. Her words, they tasted like the  _ blood _ in his mouth. It wasn’t just a mere cry for help as he could hear her heart spill out through the syllables as if those would  _ hemorrhage _ and it immediately makes him lightheaded with haze. Thousands of heartbeats beating around her as the vile cats clawed their way to entrap the helpless girl. The repetitions of such sentences wrap around his windpipe and the intense rush of heat flares through his torso before the forest of his chest hair rustles in a gusting breeze - they smother him and he  _ justifies _ himself that’s why his breathing is so heavy. 

He’s painfully familiar with losing someone who was his home. He would never ever forget the face of the person who was his last redemption; the definition of home didn’t consist of  _ extravagant _ worldly goods and affluence. He could only get by with well-worn, thinned and form-fitting leather jacket with the arsenal of his firearm, along with his inanimate dog that had been his company his whole life. The threaded scent of cigarette smoke with hint of sweet vanilla, hemp seed and buttery bananas was his home. The ravaged war he had gone through, that depressing melancholy of the blue accentuated by the offsetting orange glow, his eyes told it all even before he utters a single word. That surging desperation becomes dark mountainous forms, seeping into the surrounding aura as he could feel the colors  _ coalesce _ through as the sensation intensifies. 

Her voice was as good as a roar; he didn’t need the  _ entire _ picture to piece together what had happened the next door. A bloody discharge of massacre which had taken place and the lingering iron-rich scent along with festering putrescence permeated through the recess of his mind in his fitful sleeps. A blast from a comet, intermingled through the blurry reality akin to  _ chimerical  _ fancies. His own skin seeped with the endless lecture of unbearable ennui. His craft reduced down to a level of sublimity - drowning out his own creeping vines with murky windows which not an ounce of light could enter through the premise. His damned feverish senses only amplified as he himself becomes a hyper-vigilant dog. Like projecting his _ astral body _ of his consciousness outside the closed door where he could only perceive powerlessness. 

He had never looked at her face front-on, until now. Through the rusted security door chain, he meets the  _ unfathomable _ deep blue of her eyes and the resemblance is uncanny. He could feel the familiar  _ paroxysm _ sweep through the expanse of his skin as the sentimental yearning and past ignorance of flightful fancy past become a soaring tower reaching up to the sky. Disregarding his  _ hesitancy _ , he slips the door open just enough for her to get in. A quick tug upon her slender wrist as he senses a bone-settling feeling which comes in darting daggers. 

_ They would just miss her by a fraction of a second.  _

___

Mischa found herself stumbling through the door, breath caught in her chest as she made a beeline for the opposite end if the room. Adrenaline and fear prompted her to place herself as physically far away from the door as she possibly could, eyes wide as her arms remained half-raised in a panicked defense stance. Eyes darting to the man ( _ his name was Nigel _ ), she stood in a frantic silence, her face drained of any color as she stood in the safety of his room. Holding a gun by his head, the silence between them was out of pure,shaken relief that whatever threat that lay outside was unlikely to find its way past his door.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Mischa stood like a woman of the witch trials, feeling like she was being crucified for crimes she was oblivious to have ever committing. Nothing made sense, and dizziness threatened to overcome her.

“They killed him. My boyfriend. His body was laying dead by the door when I walked past and I heard footsteps screaming my name, even though they didn’t know…it was me…I didn’t know where else to go.” She said this all without blinking, hardly moving a single muscle. “Oh  _ God…Will…” _ Mischa shook her head, backing away as if the threat was present directly in front of her. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, fingers raking through her hair as she tried to ground herself in the spiral of horror and despair that swarmed her thoughts. Mischa would barely register that Nigel had been holding a gun as he ushered her inside without a single word. But those questions would come later.

“Why would they be after me?” she whimpered. “Why? I don’t understand…” All Mischa could do was shake her head as she gripped onto his bed post tightly with one hand. Anything to ground herself back to a reality where her dead boyfriend was laying in the doorway of their apartment as men searched the complex for anyone that had any information on her. Mischa, who had never committed a crime any more serious than stealing a lollipop from a convenience store when she was six. Whatever they had come for had resulted in Will’s death. In one way or another, Mischa was to blame.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything  _ whirls _ and  _ fades _ , Mischa’s zipping form and the air around her reduces into an incoherent mess of swirling strokes and splitting images of decalcomania as the flamboyant array of warm tones seep through the corner of his eyes. He didn’t know what to expect at this time of moment but she was functioning on fight or flight response. He has to regain his innate nature of being both a  _ predator _ and a  _ loving soul _ as his ephemeral reflection of the past memories flutter by as if turning the pages of his unfinished chapters. An irreparable damage to his fragile heart that no one dared to prod into - his  _ tenacious _ composure of non-approachable facade had driven most of them away and so did his enigmatical approach which bordered uncaring and gruff. As he finally comes to his senses that this day is the very day he would accept with the fact that the girl sitting in the corner of his room like a  _ condemned  _ innocent, at least he will have a sliver of ray along with him in his empty heart. 

_ Maybe he could watch Mischa as a bright north star, shining her path _ . That’s the only thing he could give to her when everything became utterly hopeless, his obstinate mind had sealed his fate forever.

_ Masters of silent communication _ , as he looks over the shoulder. His revolver still clutched tight around his warm palm, he maintains his ever-so straight posture until he could hear the hovering footprints make their exit along the narrow corridor. The other unspoken bursting of emotions was all within his glassy and impassioned orbs, and he knew exactly what those fucking hyenas feed upon; the  _ fear _ , the idea of wiping off any source of evidence that would be their evident  _ downfall _ . Misery was their elixir and they preyed upon the weak. He was a disposal to counterbalance as an extension of the r _ aw, uncontrollable  _ nature of the food chain.  _ Wasn’t the world full of evil and he himself reacted on the thought of the askewed vigilance? _ As his continuation of his soul,encapsulated into a solemn and trustworthy company for more than twenty years still close to his pulsing bloodstream. Nigel simply imitates the gesture and turns around to face Mischa. 

“ _ Will Graham _ . Seemed nice enough at least on the outside. Did he get involved in any shady endeavor,  _ drug smuggles, trades, brawls _ , that sort of thing? He was always sporting a fucking nasty black eye from time to time.”

Like him being the monster born of  _ sorrow _ and  _ eternal love _ , he could feel himself projecting towards the tragedy-stricken couple. How he had flowed as a lost child, his memory almost completely wiped, as only  _ fragmentary _ snippets would haunt his nightmares. His barefoot staccato through the narrow hallway leading up to the small habitat, a single reminder of his life as a vagabond. The air tastes of sour tang, so familiar, yet foreign at the same time. With threading and irresistible pull of magnetic force claiming him in entirety, he penetrates his gaze upon abruptly broken quantum solace as a slightest intrusion of his part convulses his form.

“You’re an unbreakable chain forever connected to his name. Any kind of ties, they’re to sever them.” 

___

He’s still skeptical how this abominably cruel crime could ever be linked to Will, as most hitmen he knew didn’t thrive with mutilating the corpses as they would seek an executioner type kills. More  _ efficient _ and  _ instantaneous _ . As he had been familiarized his body with multitudes of bullet wounds and other mishaps that would leave lasting impressions of burnt snapshots of that particular day’s memory,  _ unless it was absolutely necessary, _ he wouldn’t leave with a helpless groaning of the victim neglected upon the darkening surroundings to succumb him as one’s last breath was imminent. They were all about consuming people and taking their power, like a collector of souls, to take their wholesome being so it becomes part of themselves as well.  _ No, this was someone who had lost his temper. _ Seeing red all over the fucking place as crimson waterfall splattered over his residence as well. 

Though he had folded himself down to fit between the smallest crevices and wear it like a fortified armor, he had his own price to pay. All the  _ contusion _ and  _ bruises _ , the debt he had to pay so he doesn’t perish with self-inflicted wounds. The pain lessens with his bulletproof armor, the distance he continued to keep even when his curiosity would get the best of him. _ It paid more to care less, but was life as simple as that?  _ A  _ constant _ , endless war between forgetting and remembering. 

“Then think later, you will have enough time to ponder on the tragedy and regret in the imminent future.” Nigel lets it pass and treads slowly, yet hesitantly, towards Mischa as his sensuous lips draw together in a straight line. Through a slight exhaustion, a palpable rush of energy exchanges through his recurrent breaths. Instead of answering, he feels the hurt sitting lodged beneath his tongue as he withdraws the muzzle to shove it against the back of his sweatpants. “Four times, even when they desperately tried to hide the truth, it became more evitable by doing so.” His words drop with tears as he accepts her version of his story. 

“None of the things are fair in life. Actions contradict, paths  _ converge _ and  _ diverge _ . Danger seem to gravitate towards you and you can’t fucking stop it.” Still maintaining his distance, he snatches a damp towel that had been drying against the backrest of the chair and wipes his sweat-drenched face, then walks over to the ledge where his dachshund plush sits. 

“A fucking kid or adult, life doesn’t extend such mercy if it decides to. Such clarity and blindness holds no bar. Imagine a kid in a coma that will never wake up, because he or she was born in a terror-stricken country.”  

___

Swallowing thickly, Mischa found herself staring again, and quickly averted her gaze. He hadn’t answered her question about the gun in his hand, or if he had more somewhere else. Beside him, the stuffed animal in the shape of a Dachshund pup seemed to stare her down from its perch beside Nigel. Despite it being cute and very contradictory to his somewhat menacing presence, she felt like its beady eyes were staring her down from where she sat. It seemed so out of place, Mischa actually smiled a little as she wiped the rest of the tears from her eyes.

“I know,” she said. A chill passed through her body, causing her to shiver. She felt so small and irreparably frail, like a simple gust of wind could rip her apart at the seams. She was always a  _ small girl _ , in physical stature and with how thin she always was being raised in the system without any real family, but it was rare that she felt so vulnerable. She had decided to pursue her education at the local university when she met Will and they moved in together; the first real feeling of family she had ever really felt. She had loved him. Truly, and without question. And now he was gone.

"I just wish…I wish it didn’t have to happen so suddenly. I feel like I can’t even process this. I’m not even sad that he’s gone, I’m just. Freaked out. I guess.“ She paused. "I guess it’s just not something I’ll ever be ready for.” Mischa eyed the stuffed animal again, finding that it’s creepy black eyes were beginning to make her laugh.

“Do you have a daughter? Or a wife? Is that hers?” She would ask about the guns later. Mischa’s  _ insatiable _ curiosity was indeed something that often got the better of her, landing her in some deep trouble with the nuns and caretakers as a child. Taking a deep breath, Mischa stood, taking a careful step towards the animal, glancing at him in a silent request for permission to touch it, as if it were a live dog that could bite. She touched the small dog’s head.  _ It was soft.  _ In the quiet that had fallen over the room, she felt the tension in her muscles beginning to ebb, very slowly, as she examined the little animal that sat beside him.

___

Just like sleep sucking him down so suddenly that it was like losing  _ consciousness _ and without knowing exactly  _ where _ and  _ when _ he’d wake up; some of the gruesome spectacles he had faced and caused had been a sinister concoction from a particularly terrible dream with such details so vividly clear. Yet, the most frightening experiences to him were having to relive through the waking hours, bordering between wake and unconsciousness as he continued his uphill battle as he maintained the  _ pendulous edge _ , closer and closer towards the  _ distinguishable _ reverberations of whispered sounds, of low laughter and shared sighs. Not the sudden abyss of familiar  _ death _ , but the hard reality of life with his usual insistence and desperation. When he finally came to his senses, that dachshund plush had been tugged tightly upon the crook of his elbow, pressing against his side where a constant beeping, a single reminder of his clinging life which he had gravitated in inevitable magnetism. 

A slight hesitation as he attempts to speak, lips twitching at the deep sense of dread as he nods, a  _ question _ that never fails to thud into him like a freight train. He had gone through the exact same thing and no, it wasn’t like a bird fluttering away from his grasp. He felt like he had extinguished the prospect of her thriving life with one single wrong move and life wasn’t merciful, as his efforts to conciliate this mental dispute proved fruitless. “Time won’t heal the scar, it just covers up enough until your fucking raining tears subside,” he clutches the stuffed animal like he had countless times, both the only means of abating the storm within him as his heart aflame, begging to be quenched with ear-splitting shrieks as it implores to be silenced. 

When the thought of Gabi became too much with all those crystal clear  _ recollections _ with all the fresh pages of the book had been  _ yellowed _ and tarnished and  _ creased _ in the corners, when he couldn’t get her out of his head, then he turned into his usual way of emptying out the stuffed mind elsewhere; by  _ delving deeper into his work _ . Of course, Gabi filled him and both  _ healed _ and  _ destroyed _ him whole, it would always be that way with blood on his hands. 

“I had a wife and yes, it was hers.” Extending his arms as if he had been drawn towards her vulnerability and  _ helplessness _ , no words would soothe what Mischa was going through. Only the gestures that seemed to break through his menacing exterior, breaking the confines of his self through as his arm extends. Even when he feels like the blood had been drained from his skin, it’s strange, yet incomparably comforting to gaze into such an alabaster face which reminds so much of his Gabi. Evening draws in around them and his calloused ends of fingers inadvertently curve around the leathery grip. “I must excuse myself, you’re more than welcome to stay and make yourself a smoothie.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Cute,” she said. She didn’t look up, even when he left the room rather abruptly, closing the door behind him and leaving her on her own.  _ Well goodbye to you too, _ she thought. Guess he wasn’t one for words.

She found herself transfixed by the little animal. It had its years of wear. That much was true. She wanted to ask what he meant by had a wife, but somehow she knew that this subject was not something she should really be running her mouth about so soon. Nevertheless, Nigel was gone.  _ Make a smoothie my ass, _ she thought, eyeing the door with contempt less he return before she could raid his kitchen. If he was going to dump her on her own after she nearly died, she was willing to take full advantage of being left alone with a stranger’s food.

Mischa was entirely unfamiliar with his kitchen, but she was able to find an odd assortment of items in his fridge; bananas, high-protein shakes, kale, and yogurt that she had a funny feeling may have expired some time ago. He had apples and cantaloupe in the back of his counter, which she eagerly grabbed and began cutting with one of the long knives in the knife block beside the stove. Grateful for the distraction, Mischa cut up the fruit into small pieces, even taking care to remove the skin from the cantaloupe without cutting herself. It kept her mind and hands busy, taking her thoughts away from Will and the violent bloodshed that still left her shaken to the core.

“What else do you have in here, big guy…?” Pulling open his cabinets, he had a few dusty boxes of pasta and lentils, along with tomato sauce and a small jar of honey.  _ Perfect. _ She eagerly pulled it out and dumped half the jar into the blender, tossing in the pieces of fruit and the chilled protein shakes from the fridge. Mischa didn’t bother paying attention to measurements or proportions, only concerned with filling the blender with the fruit as long as it would fit. And it did. Pleased with herself and her handy work, she squinted at the blender curiously, trying to find the right controls.  _ Shouldn’t be too hard, _ she thought as she turned the setting to “high”.  _ Hope he doesn’t mind I used the rest of his shake stuff. _

One minute, Mischa was happily preparing a drink for herself. The next, Mischa watched in horror as the lid that she hadn’t bothered to tighten rocketed up towards the ceiling in a vast explosion of milk, fruit, and sticky honey, smacking against the ceiling were it clattered back onto the stove. Everything within a ten-foot radius, including Mischa herself, was splattered with the mixture in less than two seconds, creating a proper wreck out of the man’s kitchen. Mischa couldn’t help but scream, stumbling back into the kitchen table which slid against the wall with a loud  _ thud, _ taking a smoothie-covered Mischa down to the kitchen floor where she stayed, watching smoothie drip from the ceiling like a mockery of her very existence.

___

A last knowing glance upon the back of his shoulder and snatching the closed case, the wear and tear visible, yet it’s well-maintained and smooth appearance shines along with his gloved hands. He moves with hypnotic oddity, like the crackling embers with unfurling smoke emitting such overwhelming beat. He could be like a surge of waves breaking on the rocks, or the sunlight splintering through the bed of sand, dissolving into each grain as the beauty of his innate movements carry him with such  _ inexpressible _ , spellbound  _ peculiarity _ . 

He had already done his research, along with the destroyed map of the secret hideout Darko had already supplied him with such interior and location. As his black-clad form effortlessly blends into the darkness, his hazel dazzles like the overhead stars, still numerous, yet hidden beneath clumps of dark clouds. The sight of the deepening night  _ enamours _ him in such renunciation; only  _ nonchalance _ and sinking serenity as none of the potent images, startling hues and  _ disturbance _ seeps into the chambers of his heart. His slender and elongated spine tauts, yet a thrilling energy seems to flow oh-so quietly from his core. The only light he relies upon is from his own, only  _ illuminated _ so far as his viewfinder allows. He’s not free from the bile rising in his throat and the breath catching in his lungs; they’re as bad as himself, in almost equal measure and deserves to be swatted like flies. Yet, it occurs to him that it might be not long before he’s worn out and life would  _ repulse _ him or it would revolt him. Coping mechanisms with all things  _ humanity _ was becoming too unbearable with each passing moment and breath. 

Still, his calm acceptance of all things made him to feel like something sacred - _ a harbinger of death _ , a peaceful secession of mortality upon those who deserved more. He had watched damned assailant spew blood from his mouth and throat, splattering in rhythmic contractions as he stared into his raised eyelids, the crimson and watery discharge visible in his dead eyes. Upon the feast of fury painting red to white, he had screamed and shrieked within the caverns of his throat as he watched them thread together in agony, the backdrop as intense as engulfing dance of reds and yellows continued through the night.  _ Blood and flesh _ , all those ravaged private carnage he had sunk his teeth into; all the  _ enmeshed _ physical remnants of Gabi were gone,  _ excreted _ , yet her extinguished life still stuck obstinately to his skeleton and cells. 

Four in total, sitting around the round table as he could scent a stale cigarette smoke clouding his vision like noxious miasma. His finger trembles as the voice  _ dwindles _ in his head, fading into the distance as he moves like a one-man army, barely making any noise as he moves like a licking wind.  _ One _ ,  _ two _ , _ three _ consecutive shots to their heads and neck with minimal spillage, he fails to perceive the fourth one and feels the portent silence swell within the room. _ Thunderous _ roar from his heart threatens to shatter the confine of his torso and through the haze of groans and aggravating scent of crimson overpowering the murky gray, he darts towards and catches the fourth one who seemed unaccountably tinged with fear. Before the bullet produces a sensation which barely qualify as  _ pain _ first, the sole of his feet presses against his face after Nigel overpowers him with ramming jab to the man’s head. Disposing the last one and quickly fleeing the scene, then he feels the trickling blood slowly drain as the world reduces into a pale, fluttering trembling curtains beyond the inky darkness. 

Quickly making his way back to the rented hotel room, he’s immediately assaulted with the concoction of  _ dulcet rain _ , erupted from his precious blender. Strangely enough, his  _ exhaustion _ is repelled by this bout of unexpected accident as he blankly stares, lips ajar as he cracks the faintest hint of amusement. In utter flabbergasted shock, the sapping energy makes his shoulders to slump as he slips a long sigh before turning his attention to the hotel phone. Now he wonders why he had been succumbing to the blanketing tiredness - he hadn’t drunk his routine banana protein smoothie before his assignment tonight. “We might get kicked out of the fucking hotel, so wash up, we’re going to move.” 

___

“ _ Huh?” _

Mischa felt sore and defeated.  _ Everywhere. _ It had been a solid five minutes since Nigel had returned and Mischa had remained on the ground where fate had landed her since the smoothie explosion. Occasionally, a small drip would fling itself onto her forehead from the ceiling fan, but she still refused to move. As Nigel came hurrying in, she turned her head pitifully, wincing as he implied that she would have to move. Truthfully, she felt too depressed to even think about moving, let alone getting up from her comfortable spot on the wet, hard kitchen floor. But regardless, she crawled back to her feet.

The blender was still running. Somehow, she had blocked out the sound. She turned it off with a sense of dim finality, before shooting her gaze towards Nigel.

“Kicked out? What the hell? Did you not pay rent or something? And wait, I’m coming with you?” So many questions, and yet she didn’t expect him to fully answer a single one. She didn’t even have clothes to bring, or any of her belongings. Not that any of that mattered when her life was still potentially at risk. Nonetheless, she grabbed a wet paper towel and tried to wipe the majority of the drink off her face, at least for the time being.

“Sorry about uh…all this, I guess the lid didn’t stay…”

She winced as she scrubbed her hands. Mischa wondered if his blood pressure ever rose above 90 for crying out loud; she had just destroyed his kitchen quite literally from top to bottom and he didn’t seem to care at all. Whatever the situation may be, Mischa was in no emotional or physical position to argue or barter about the workings of whatever they had right now. She would allow herself to question him once she was sure she wasn’t going to die or be taken by strange men, even if nothing could be done to save poor Will.

“There is literally nothing about you that I understand,” she said as she dried her hands. “Nothing. But I’m going to trust you because right now, I don’t have any other choice. Will you at least tell me what’s going on and why you don’t seem to care that your kitchen is dripping with honey, milk, and fruit?”

___

With a defeated sigh, his gaze diverts to the swoosh of the rotating blades continuously whirling in such a mockery. His presence and his unexpected injury as the honeyed concoction continues to drip like the chocolate stream from the Wonka factory. Soon, the oxidized bananas would turn the place to rot in a brown goo and his lashes flutter, suppressing the  _ red-hot flame _ threatening to push through his eyeballs. His revolver is on his dominant hand, the case with the silencer and his backup glock and long-range firearm in the closed case, safely stowed away from Mischa’s sight. Yet, through his strangled breath, there’s a visible difference as fingers curl - a violent thought crosses as she had just opened a can of worms for him; a fucking quandary. As if the handle of the case had been his clutch upon the reality, he doesn’t know what would happen if he ever let that go. He might just thrust the muzzle of the gun to the side of her head, blow her brain out and tread his way like he had before. 

Knuckles turned white as each inch of his vein  _ pulsates _ with constant motion and concurrently, he feels like  _ extinguishing _ . His own tangible corporeality burning up the clinging scent of death which swells further with his bated breaths. The dark garment prevents her from ever noticing the trickling blood that seems to etch his already fervent coppery skin, yet, the vivid spread of the faint petals upon the prominent muscles were like the hubbub of New York rush hour, aggravating against his left ear drum as he hides beneath the not-so impenetrable facade. 

“I paid for months in advance, but it would take a long while to fix what you have fucked up,” just when he  _ cautiously  _ yet _ obstinately _ voices the thoughts, the fact that she is going through the same fucking trauma that he went through and still going through as they  _ beat _ and  _ stab _ him. He has to sit back, look around and make sure he’s not too jaded over the sweet air - through the rustle of the cars, he would still see and hear things. Her voice whispering softly in his ear and the nakedness of her suffocated smile still  _ transcending _ into an erupting spillage of the sunset. That very  _ discharge _ of vividity had been her blood, his lips had tinged as he had kissed her fleeting fingertips the last farewell. 

So he masks his  _ racing heart _ , the tenebrous rolling waves whirling to consume him to utter such virulent words through such hyperbole facade of his appearance. He might be a lingering soul along the despicable world, just fluttering away like an injured bird or the trembling edge of the flame, dangerously perched atop of a candle stub, about to extinguish with the softest blow; then, he would then maybe be  _ liberated _ as the sulfury smoke whirls in the wind. A wanderer with borne strength out of  _ desperation _ . 

“I’m just a fucking glass and waves and bones, I’m meant to be broken and this is not my fucking home to begin with.” Stepping away from the kitchen with the case tugged beneath his armpit, a slight wince sketches through the corner of his eyes and forehead as darkness  _ contours _ through the deep crease. Immediately, his hand scoops up the stuffed dachshund, before making a beeline for his already packed suitcase; with bare essentials, always ready to disappear like the silent night air; just like his lips had been when he accompanied Gabi’s last breath. “Trash the clothes and throw this on.” He plucks out one of his button-up shirts, threadbare at the edges, yet well-worn. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh,” she said simply. Mischa eyed him, not without wariness as she snatched the shirt from his hands and marched off to the bathroom, perhaps with just a hint of embarrassment that she had been so silly. Tossing her shirt to the bathroom floor, she pulled on his flannel shirt that was about four sizes too large. The sleeves poured past her hands and the shirt itself hung past her waist. It was comfortable, though. And cute. He had taste, for a lonely, stoic wanderer who owned a gun and possibly owned about twelve more. The same man who was seemingly declaring himself responsible for her.

“This is  _ huge _ one me,” she muttered. She held her arms out in front of her, causing the sleeves to comically droop past her fingers. She rolled them up as she walked out, but Mischa was still practically swimming in the garment.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she quickly slipped on her shoes. She watched him as he stared blankly at the kitchen, trying not to laugh at the sight. “You still didn’t answer my question…even if this isn’t your home, it seems kinda sudden to just have to leave like this…” All at once, Mischa snapped her head up, looking him dead in the eye as she stopped what she was doing all together. The strange expression in his gaze clicked something within her.

“This is about the people who killed Will, isn’t it?”

___

He didn’t have to bear the weight of the world, or better, entirely locked beneath the  _ vault _ of his bittersweet regret that manifested into valleys and ridges of dark  _ mountains _ . His mind had long withered like the countryside and the fire and brimstone endlessly burned like _ burial pyre of the dead _ . So he had sunken into the laconic depth of the silence, as not so serendipitous encounter had brought such contradictory individuals to be pushed together within his  _ universe _ . There still resides a  _ swelling _ ,  _ rolling _ sea inside of him, foreboding as a kinetic tidal rise and swirl that had been desperate enough through his fragile reflection hidden beneath the recaptured, suppressed recollection enclosed in an awkward distance. 

The toxicity of the unbreakable links shackled through the negativity and pressure within his mind and the world should be ceased  _ immediately _ , so does the hindrance within them. It doesn’t give him assurance nor the reason to drink the undeserved happiness as people come and go, leave a permanent blotches that would radiate like the soundless cries of his lips. They spin out like a continuous stream, turning into  _ castigating _ ropes as they scatter into brilliant jewels of the night sky, only to turn its intrinsic nature to be jagged prickles upon the  _ chambers _ of his heart. Instead of her presence being the festering wound on his side, he could  _ encompass _ and change his situation. _ Change the way he thinks.  _

“The fucking shirt is eating you whole, your limbs are spilling,” a faintest curl sketches through the corner of his  _ straightened _ lips before tugging one of the sleeves. “To another hotel I frequent, I’ll pay the maintenance to fix this… Incident.” Lips part, but words fail to come out as the facial muscles tug like a  _ wounded _ bird’s flapping wing. They clench further, enough to tinge redness onto his chapped lips, still containing an air of coldness of the city night. What does she fucking expect? All of the fleeting solace in his wanderer spirit had been contained within that small suitcase he holds like the last threading sanity before he shoves the revolver down the curve of his back, taut with chilled lick. “No, that’s entirely  _ separate _ , this is my personal vendetta, at least close to being an initiative.”   

___

He was fascinating to study, really. She didn’t get him; he had some sort of agenda to which she was unfamiliar, some sort of way of business that now, suddenly and instantaneously, involved her. Snorting under her breath, she tied a knot with his shirt in the back of her to ease the bagginess and wiped off the smoothie from her pants.

_ A vendetta.  _ Mischa peered up at him as she made another adjustment to the shirt, squinting her eyes in never-ending curiosity. He was growing stranger by the minute, so easily ready to immerse her into some strange life that he lived and that she had never known. There was a lot she could say, and a thousand questions burned in her throat, demanding to be asked. Perhaps this would be a lesson in learning to hold her tongue. 

Maybe it was best she knew as little about him as possible.

_ A vendetta. _

_ “ _ Oh,” she said. Given all that had happened, she felt like she could accept nearly anything he had to throw at her. If he had asked her to overthrow the government with him, she probably would have accepted that in kind.

“That’s cool,” was all she said, giving him a small, weary smile. “I’m all yours, then.”

___

Most would have prodded him until they drew blood, see his bones  _ brittle _ , bend and chip away as the honey within his veins that had sung  _ arias _ and  _ serenades  _ had coagulated, turned into sheets of ice and shattered as it attracted maggots and festering wounds as his ego met its death.  _ Wasn’t it already infused with his bone marrow and gave him something entirely else than thefucking love?  _ The mantras of his cold, impassive animosity littered his existence as the electrical pulses within him had fired so quickly, the supernova of his thoughts would permanently cloud him in a funnel as he stands amidst the obsidian night, his vehement hazel trailing over the ephemeral strokes of city night. 

That very luminescence seemed to etch a charred hole within his heart as he could feel the wound gape. Through the impassive and still as ever face like a sheet of steel, the patience wears thin as the warmth spreads, becoming a scalding river of bubbling magma. Looking through his frail reflection, the thought that hadn’t surfaced until now becomes painfully evident. He and Mischa had at least ten, more like fifteen years of age difference and Mischa didn’t quite look like she could be his daughter or even a distant relative. Although if someone squeezed their eyes, there would be a slight resemblance, yet it was way too far-fetched. 

“Yeah, cool, indeed,” a half-hearted response as his attention hones to the ripping pain that seems to shed light upon the pouring greed of the fluids. “Have you ever plucked a fucking bullet out a man’s body?” A long sigh slowly expands his chest and even though seemingly undetected, he knows he’s sweating buckets as his tired-looking eyes trace her hesitancy. Through such resoluteness, an unuttered question bubbles up inside him. Even when she had sought his help, he couldn’t wonder why she had been placing her full trust upon such an enigmatic stranger. 


	5. Chapter 5

“Have I - ?” The question temporarily threw her off guard, causing her to shoot a menacing gaze in his direction just as she had been ready to march out the door. The question seemed so off, out of place even for a man she was  _ pretty sure _ owned at least ten more guns. She was observant; very little regarding the nature of human beings ever slipped past her gaze. With as stoic as this man was, and with how oddly reassured he was just by him being in the same room as her, she still couldn’t help but have strange thoughts brought to the surface of her mind.

“ _ No,”  _ she nearly sputtered. “I haven’t. Is this something I have to know in order to travel with you? Because that’s just a little bit  _ strange.”  _ Nevertheless, she didn’t take him for a maniac or someone to fear. He seemed tired, if nothing else. Very worn-down by something Mischa didn’t quite know what, yet still kind nonetheless.  _ Life, _ she thought.  _ It can be enough to make the strongest of us too weary to walk. _ Again, her instinct was to ask. 

But she didn’t.

God, he wasn’t that much different from Will, was he? Wrapped in an air of mystery, new secrets always being uncovered no matter how much Mischa thought she knew him. Always keeping her guessing, although it was never a  _ bad _ thing when it came to Will. She found him endlessly fascinating, and still did even up until he died. Thinking of Will brought on a fresh new wave of pain and Mischa quickly shoved it from her mind. Better not to dwell until she had no choice but to let the raging sorrow surface its ugly head.

“But…” she swallowed thickly. “I can certainly learn.”

___

For the briefest of time and in some strange way, he thinks of her storming out of the premise without ever looking back. With his profession that literally strapped a ticking time bomb around the chambers of his heart to put it mildly, he had accumulated myriads of scars as he heard  _ continuous _ murmurs in his blood. As he had stood under the revealing light of the moon as it exposed his true face, the essence of him, the inner  _ vibrancy _ as he felt the breath of the beloved and listened to it. It was like being  _ submerged _ in the deep water as the blood, along with his stilled exhales, ran furiously through hers. He still feels the bullet twisting within the flesh, though it doesn’t. 

With her admission, which had been very well expected - he didn’t intimately know how Mischa and Will’s relationship was like, but then no one would ever go through the constant sensation of having the shards in his veins and letting their blood drip out as if he had been purging. Or they would be enraptured as his blood seethed back to life as the force of his suffering surged through him in such a fury that seemed it would burst his heart.  

The proximity means nothing when he feels the space between them  _ embodies  _ light years away, as if some kind of occult and  _ magical forces of the world had driven them afar.  _

The weighty case and his gun feels even more so feverous - both as a strange fever that burns in his eyes in manifested determination and the turmoiled delirium, as if he had been the one that didn’t die straight away with the blow to his head. Putting it down and setting his gun over the flat surface, he slips off the warmth-spilled shirt and accepts the paradoxical pain and memory that seemingly turns into a dagger. “Open the case, you should find a small aid kit tucked beneath one of the silencers.”

___

Watching him carefully, Mischa took a deep breath to calm her shaking hand. She knew how to do this. Just because it was  _ this man _ , this strange, broken savior of some young girl he hardly knew, didn’t make him different. Didn’t give her reasonable cause to freak out. She paused for just a moment, willing the anxiety to trickle out of her system little by little until she was composed enough to begin stitching.

“This might hurt,” she murmured, as if he didn’t know. As if he probably hadn’t had to do this himself before. Pieces of him were already coming together like a strange, intricate puzzle she could only hope to begin to understand. He was violent. He was potentially dangerous. He was, also, potentially no different from the men who killed poor Will. Something told Mischa this certainly was not the case, but could she really be too careful with someone who was so bent on keeping secrets? Not to mention someone who claimed this wound was a result of love-driven revenge.

“Yes…nurse in-training. Nursing schools love to give scholarships to kids raised in the state systems, apparently. I got a full-ride, plus a well-paying job at the hospital while I got my education. I’ll be going into my second year this fall.”

She concentrated carefully on the wound. The last question stung, not to her pride, but to the waking simmer of grief and sadness that was slowly molding itself into the burning embers of rage. She gritted her teeth as she worked, carefully yet purposefully working at his wound until it was stitched, clean and secured by her steady handiwork.

“Of course I would. He didn’t deserve that.” She looked up at him in bitter grief, tears threatening to spill from her weary eyes. “Is that what you’re doing? Hunting down the men that killed your wife?”

___

It’s not the anger that consumes him; the assailants had been extinguished and the confined building he ravaged with the wrecked spectacle of crimson as it had been trekking through the cramped and dingy apartment. As long as he doesn’t get broken into pieces and scraps. Of some supernova as he had been a son of a star. All energy, power and passion until he had met a similar fate not too long ago; the circumstances were similar, though Gabi’s strains oforchestra wafted up on him in a slow  _ allemande _ . Every time she played, he would become stronger as he removes his bandages, pulls himself across the floor as he drenched in sweat and strained to work his legs, he would finally stand and do more of those stand-ups and push-ups even before the hurtling dizziness would leave him alone. 

Then, he would finally meet her as he approached her, with all smiles as the weight of the injury drops in his heart as he had counted weeks ahead. He would woo her as he would tell her - it was a universal rule that when someone saves your life, you are then responsible for that person forever. Even more so than his trifecta of guns, drugs and money, he would be addicted to her  _ music _ and her  _ entirety _ and her  _ soul _ in essential. The red lips burning the frosted silence of him, melting his stormy anger with her carnality as he softens like a malleable clay. 

“You can be  _ salve _ to my salt,  _ wine _ to my fucking blood,  _ petals _ to my thorn, as long as your innate  _ pureness _ doesn’t char and burn away like a withered rose. Did you know that, roses take the longest to die out of every single fucking flower as it is resilient. You’ll be my medic after the metaphor of pool-wound ooze.” 

Lashes flutter, imperceptibly, yet noticeable with Mischa’s close proximity as the curved needle slowly perforates the sensitive flesh, the slatted bars of his ribs petrifying as if even a minutest movement will make his steady heartbeat go out of whack. His gaze remains towards the kit, more so accurately, over the splayed collection of the apparatus, which had been so intricately woven to his life. 

“Yes, effectively,” it’s not easy to stop the ribbon of his memory from unfurling like crazy, as if it couldn’t be picked up and safely tugged away anymore. “After this goddamn wound heals, I’m planning to be right back on the horse. We should start anew. As you know my name, I’m sure. I’m Nigel, your  _ fucking neighborhood friendly  _ hitman. Do you know how to shoot a gun, Mischa?”


	6. Chapter 6

Putting the rest if the first-aid kit away, Mischa’s fingers faintly brushed against the cool metal of weaponry stores in the metal box. She had never met anybody with this many weapons before, and it was both unnerving and fascinating all at once. Gingerly closing the box, Mischa watched Nigel with wariness. That wound would leave a scar for sure, a large one at that. Something told Mischa she should take Nigel to a proper doctor. Something also told her that he would refuse.

“Is this a miniature lesson in not losing my sense of self?” she asked with a small smile. “Stay kind, be good, find yourself and all that?” Mischa knelt beside him, squinting at the wound to ensure it wasn’t showing any early signs of infection.

“As resilient as a rose,” she said. “I like that. I think that much can be manageable…and if you need someone with medical skills, I’m nearly there. I only have a year left to go before I’m officially certified. As long as you can provide me with the equipment, I can make sure your grand plot for revenge is sustainable and effective.” At that, Mischa laughed. Mostly at her own expense. She sounded quite insane, even if she fully meant what she said.  _ A hitman and his medic. _

“No,” she said after a moment. “I’ve never shot a gun before. But…I want to learn how. You should teach me. That way I can…help you. Maybe.” She gave him a long, serious look, anticipating his response.

___

The firearm would bear none of his fingerprints, yet it had been the single set of items that defined him in whole. The silent whisper of whooshing sound of the bullet, as his penetrative hazel works as a guiding laser beam as it draws up its aimed projectile with about 98% accuracy. He would’ve already calculated the velocity of the wind and how it would alter the splitting animosity that would sever and pluck the wretched souls of the men. He would be able to distinguish which particular ammunition had unnerved such beasts as he inhales the oozing gunpowder through the crisp air. Mischa would soon learn and appreciate that particularly savory hushed puff of the gunpowder and slick motor oil that would glide the web of her fingers. 

“Many fail to breach through the outer layer of myself. I’m sure you’ll be the unique handful, possibly only breathing one to achieve that status quo,” he slightly flexes his left arm, perceiving no more pain than a gentle throb, which halts as soon as he bends his arm towards his torso. It wouldn’t be a problem for him to carry on his next task. Definitely the lesser wound he had retained over the years and he still had qualified himself more than competent with limited mobility. “Resilient, but fragile at the same time, have you seen the rose burn? Its scent drowns beneath the charred smoke.” 

“A life is a life is a life, Mischa. Who knows what the fuck, as long as you’re efficient and useful,” he chuckles in return, fully satisfied with her answer. A quirk of smirk slanting his full lips at a wide angle. “I’ll teach you a whole hat-full of useful shit. As long as you’re not dumb and maintain the attitude of an eager beaver, you’ll do fine. Be always a quick study.” 

A cock of his head as he scrutinizes. There is so much flaring heat, enough to light a hearth that would brim an entire apartment if they could. Immediately, his good hand reaches for his engraved revolver, another one reaching for her fingers, the grip of the gun in her slender fingers. “Be a darling and shoot that damned ugly bottle next to the microwave.” 

___

And she would take those words to heart. Fragile perhaps wasn’t entirely complimentary, even if it was perhaps the truth; she was neither muscular nor accustomed to the tragedies and hardships of the world until now, as losing Will was jarring in her newly-found knowledge that the world truly was a wild, unpredictable place. By looking at him, Mischa could tell Nigel had lived this sort of life for a number of years, making them two vastly different individuals somehow thrust together through the aftermath of tragedy. His had only occur ed long ago, while Mischa’s still seemed to still be happening as she stood beside him, even in the safety of his home. She knew, then, that she would be as much his companion as she would be his medic and partner in crime.

“I’ll be as quick as I need to be,” she said. Mischa could pride herself in being a fast learner, but if she were to be honest, she only knew the workings of a gun from the crime shows she and Will used to watch. Picking the small pistol up carefully, she fumbled with the barrel for a moment before loading the small bullets in the barrel from the other box containing his ammo. It took her a moment, but she managed to secure the barrel and pull back the safety, holding the handle with two hands. She took a deep breath. Her hands steadied.

“If I make your microwave explode, I’m not holding myself responsible,” she told him flatly. Giving him a blank stare, she carefully squeezed the trigger and fired, once, twice, and a third time before finally hitting the bottle by the fourth shot, sending shards of glass ricocheting across the kitchen, causing Mischa to wince and draw back. Only the very bottom remained, rattling on the counter before falling to the ground and shattering on its own. The kitchen wall had bullet holes, but she had managed to miss the microwave and do what Nigel had wanted.

“Whoa – I did it!” Mischa grinned, glancing between Nigel and the gun in her hands. “I think. Um…is the landlord gonna complain if I left a few holes in the walls? Because I can’t pay that.” She grinned, and even laughed despite herself. Holding the gun in her hands made her feel powerful.  _ In control.  _ This was a device that could kill the men who killed Will.

___

More words rises in him, fills his mouth and pushes against his straightened lips, yet he merely scrutinizes her with his encompassing and  _ deep _ gaze. He swallows, forcing them down as he feels they tear at his throat, turning to acid as a strangled noise erupted from him. Where his vision turns inward where a continuous battle raged. He might have won numerous battles and weathered through the inflicted wounds, both physical and emotional, but the war still hadn’t been won. Through his steady rhythm of his pulsing heart and uniform breathing, he takes in her  _ profile _ ; long forehead, straight and feminine nose, pale skin like polished pearl, flowy blonde hair reaching past where he could perceive. Her form curvy and  _ sensual _ for her age, which he judges to be in her early twenties. _ A likeable and honest face without deception _ , maybe with a slight feistiness and an air of adventure as well.  _ Just like his darling Gabi.  _

_ Maybe he was born to bur _ n; nothing more, nothing less. A big mess of a hurricane settles and with her assuring agreement, and he smiles one of his firework smiles. Bright enough to strike a match, as contentment comes in  _ saturated waves _ . Maybe some are terribly and marvelously brave and drive enough to burn with him. No more of those days where he would spend most of the days alone, looking through the projected images of him and his ever-encompassing love, deep in a shelter of his subconsciousness.  _ The most realist world filled with his story.  _

Memories were worse than poisonous darts and Mischa’s spoken words rattle to recall the very same recollection of him sitting in the rundown hotel as this, with Gabi’s star-shaped and nimble hands on the pistol. And when he feels the rise of such potent emotions, he lets the strands wander around like migratory birds utterly lost their way back, like confused and forsaken soul treading beneath the star-studded skies.  _ How they coalesce to become a single memory, as the unfurled scene comes across as that one-of-a-kind missing piece that would fit between his slatted ribs which fail to expand now.  _

“It’s not even mine to begin with, who the fuck cares, I have enough money to mend whatever damage you wreck,” even when universe decides to throw a curveball such as this one out of a whole bunch of arsenals and whether what ifs, buts and almosts mingle together to form such headache-inducing uncertainty, he would savor this moment out of all. “Even your stance is like that of Gabi, atta girl, I’m so fucking proud of you,” thoughts immediately spill out without having to contemplate as he nods. “That’s yours to keep, from now on.” 


	7. Chapter 7

_ What a gift,  _ she thought.  _ From a man I hardly know, nonetheless. _

Strange be it then, Mischa narrowed her eyes as she turned the weapon in her hands, studying the little details in the metalwork and design. The way it fit her hands surprisingly well, not too light nor too heavy for her grip. She was inexperienced and eager, a good combination as far as she was concerned, and whatever travels that lay ahead were travels she was more than eagerly ready to embrace. Giving the wall a nervous glance, Mischa was amused, if nothing else, that something such as this wouldn’t be something for them to worry about. She smiled at Nigel, hastily setting it down on the table before offering him a hand.

“Need some help?” Mischa couldn’t help but wince at the array of injuries that molted his ribs and stomach, shallow and easily treated as they were. Somebody had it out to kill Nigel, and the idea was terrifying, if not somehow unsurprising to say the very least. But he was going to teach her, wasn’t he? How to deal with these men of evil intent. How to deal with the men who murdered the man she thought she might marry one day.

“That look like it hurt. I think those stitches should hold…um, if they don’t, I guess I can fix it, but…” she trailed off, suddenly nervous. She wanted to do well. The thought of screwing this up suddenly frightened her in an entirely different way. Biting her lip, she touched the wound gingerly. It would be fine.

“I guess we should go, shouldn’t we?”

__

Maybe it had been big of him to gift one of his most covetable and disguisable firearm in his arsenal, but it could become Mischa’s lifeline. A thing to symbolize him in its entirely. His existence had been built around it. Each bullet had been every ounce of his love, the  _ virulency _ he exerted in the midst of a sick game that the universe played. Like how it decided that he would be the one to lament and suffer, instead of taking its intended subject. The hard shell, _ soldered and fortified _ , yet such fragility were like insults upon his wrongdoings, the molten shards that would mercilessly pierce through, causing calamitous results. Instead of smelling like evocative scents of perfume and make-out sessions,  _ it smelled like burnt flesh and caked blood.  _

“That’s fucking so kind-hearted of you, but I’d rather hold this on my own,” carefully slipping on another dark-colored shirt that could blend him with contouring shadows of the darkness,  a sliver of light streaks through his profile, descends down to his torso before he buttons the shirt up. Still vying for his resilience as he pushes through with  _ persistence _ . 

It wasn’t nothing new; he’d always find his feet through his jeopardized existence and living in the shadow, which would hold him down at times even with the fire agglomerating within his sorrow-tinged eyes. 

“As you proceed in learning the necessities, you’ll realize the definition of ‘ _ getting hurt _ ,’ dramatically change,” it would be an inevitability; like a  _ beautiful parasite _ , the prospect that his life could end with a tip of the nature’s finger snapping around him, the force itself could certainly unavoidable. Yet, he feels his heart leaning against the slatted cage as her hand abates and sinks the pessimistic vibe. 

“Hold my stuffed puppy, I don’t want a drop of blood on her.”

___

Mischa made quick work of gathering up the little dog, so oddly out of place among Nigel’s demeanor. Tucking it safely under her arm, she grabbed her dirty shirt with her other hand, the only possession she had left to her name, and made quick haste to leave as soon as Nigel could stand. God, he was strong. He was so strange in how he walked and talked and acted as if the wound that could have easily killed was nothing at all. She eyed him as he stood.  _ Good thing you’re pretty. Or else you’d be bat-shit terrifying. _

“I guess,” she murmured. “I’ll do my best, where I can…when I can….but I need to learn how to shoot better than that. What happens if I ever need to protect you?” She would hold that to him later.

“I still don’t trust you to stand well. If those men come back – “ She couldn’t think about that now. Nigel would be the only one really qualified to protect them. Nonetheless, she quickly shoved the gun, now rightfully hers, into her pocket and prayed it wouldn’t decide to fire whilst resting in its place. Dog, extra shirt, gun. Mischa was ready as she ever would be.

“Stay close to me,” she murmured. Both for her faithfulness and willingness to protect, and for her own emotional protection. She was scared. She felt lost and there was nothing she could do except take the role that had been offered to her and take it to the grave. Finding a purpose in such an odd place was what she needed more than ever.

For Will. For this strange man with a collection of guns and a stuffed dog. For herself.

“…In case they do come back,” she added quickly.

___

He wasn’t much of a memory hoarder in the way most people was, yet this very place where he resided over a couple of months had them surging in ragged waves and passionate colors. Didn’t the walls bleed with muffled screams and unspoken words spurting from taut muscles? Vital fluids leaching and purging unnecessary emotions as crimson tinges through the stillness, and onslaught off the cemented floor where many heads would’ve slammed through, imprinting their existence forever. An unexpected death bed upon the living; the burden would be carried onto the living and they would have to live through what was unfinished. 

_ But what was life without a little bit of fear and love without a little bit of pain?  _

The afternoon light blinds him in the moment when he stands up, and the immediate warmth traverses through his torso like how his motorcycle engine would rev up through the fibers of his dark clothes, seeping into his bare skin of his lower legs. That’s the thing about fear and love; they were inseparable and either you feel so scared to dip your feet into a realm of love again or his heart is already getting there and you fear not knowing how to love properly. 

“When the moment comes, you’ll learn. If someone is pushed beyond the survival instinct, you tend to chase that fucking thrill.” He still remembers the time when he had following his own mentor, trailing his back with his heart constantly sinking beyond the boundary capable of holding him in check. It had been like being swept into the undercurrent as he explored the depth of the unfamiliar crimson sea where soon, the hatred would thread from his ribcage effortlessly after that very day he lost Gabi. 

With secured case along with his bare essentials, then giving the last sweep over the place, he nods and entwines his fingers against Mischa’s smaller ones, giving it a firm squeeze. Then his thumb sweeps over the back of her hand. 

“They won’t be back tonight, perhaps another day.” 


End file.
